Let’s see thy cloak

“Holá!” shouted Clopin, who had reascended his throne. “Holá there! women—wenches—is there any one of you, from the witch to her cat, any jade among you who’ll have this rogue? Holá Colette la Charonne! Elisabeth Trouvain! Simone Jodouyne! Marie Pièdebou! Thonne-la-Longue! Bèrarde Fanouel! Michelle Genaille! Claude Ronge-oreille! Mathurine Girorou! Hullah! Isabeau la Thierrye! Come and look! A husband for nothing! Who’ll have him?”
Gringoire, in this miserable plight, was doubtless not exactly tempting. The ladies seemed but little moved at the proposal, for the unfortunate man heard them answer: “No, no—hang him! Then we shall all get some enjoyment out of him!”
Three of them, however, did come forward and inspect him. The first, a big, square-faced young woman, carefully examined the philosopher’s deplorable doublet. His coat was threadbare and with more holes in it than a chestnut roaster. The woman made a wry face. “An old rag,” she muttered, and turning to Gringoire, “Let’s see thy cloak.”
“I have lost it,” answered Gringoire.
“Thy hat?”
“They took it from me.”
“Thy shoes?”
“The soles are coming off.”
“Thy purse?”
“Alas!” stammered Gringoire, “I haven’t a single denier parisis.”
“Then be hanged and welcome!” retorted the woman, turning her back on him.
The second, a hideous old beldame, black and wrinkled, and so ugly as to be conspicuous even in the Court of Miracles, came and viewed him from all sides. He almost trembled lest she should take a fancy to him. But she muttered between her teeth, “He’s too lean,” and went away.
The third was a young girl, rosy-cheeked and not too ill-favoured. “Save me!” whispered the poor devil. She considered him for a moment with an air of pity, then cast down her eyes, played with a fold in her petticoat, and stood irresolute. Gringoire followed her every movement with his eyes—it was the last gleam of hope.
“No,” she said at length, “no; Guillaume Longjoue would beat me.” So she rejoined the others.
“Comrade,” said Clopin, “you’ve no luck.”
Then, standing up on his barrel: “Nobody bids?” he cried, mimicking the voice of an auctioneer to the huge delight of the crowd. “Nobody bids? Going—going—” and, with a sign of the head to the gallows—“gone!”
Bellevigne de l’ètoile, Andry le Rouge, Fran?ois Chante-Prune again approached Gringoire.
At that moment a cry arose among the Argotiers: “La Esmeralda! la Esmeralda!”
Gringoire started, and turned in the direction whence the shouts proceeded. The crowd opened and made way for a fair and radiant figure. It was the gipsy girl.
“La Esmeralda?” said Gringoire, amazed even in the midst of his emotions how instantaneously this magic word linked together all the recollections of his day.
This engaging creature seemed to hold sway even over the Court of Miracles by the power of her exceeding charm and beauty. The Argotiers, male and female, drew aside gently to let her pass, and their brutal faces softened at her look.
She approached the victim with her firm, light step, followed closely by her pretty Djali. Gringoire was more dead than alive. She regarded him a moment in silence.
“You are going to hang this man?” she asked gravely of Clopin.
“Yes, sister,” replied the King of Tunis; “that is, unless thou wilt take him for thy husband.”
She thrust out her pretty under lip.

“I will take him,” said she.
This confirmed Gringoire more than ever in his opinion that he had been in a dream since the morning, and that this was merely a continuation of it. The transformation, though pleasing, was violent.
They instantly unfastened the noose and let the poet descend from the stool, after which he was obliged to sit down, so overcome was he by emotion.
The Duke of Egypt proceeded without a word to bring an earthenware pitcher, which the gipsy girl handed to Gringoire, saying, “Throw it on the ground.”
The pitcher broke in pieces.
“Brother,” said the Duke of Egypt, laying hands on the two heads, “she is your wife; sister, he is your husband— for four years. Go your ways.”